


All That I Ask

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Smut, F/M, First Time, Gentle Sex, Like Therapy But Dirty, Oral Sex, Showering Sam Winchester, Smut, Trauma Recovery, the softest, very soft smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27585062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: He massages little sudsy circles into my scalp and combs his fingers gently through the tangles. He shields my eyes when it’s time to rinse, tilting my chin back gently into the spray. Nobody’s done this for me since I was a child. It makes me feel innocent and serene and fucking treasured, the way he takes care of me.Sex has always felt like the height of intimacy to me. I always feel vulnerable, like that’s the closest I can get to another person, the most exposed.Sam’s fingers in my hair feel like a better expression of trust than anything I’ve ever done in bed. Sex has never felt this intimate. I’m not sure anything has ever felt this intimate.
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Reader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 52





	All That I Ask

**Author's Note:**

> This touches on a moment of post-traumatic dissociation, but the traumatic event itself is not actually discussed or even named.

_Here’s my heart, don’t break it._

_It’s all that I ask, nothing more._

_\- “Moonlight,” Future Islands_

**1.**

This is so stupid. 

This is _Sam_. This is sweet, kind, gentle Sam, and I’m head over heels for him. 

I _want_ him. How could I not? I’ve wanted to do this since I met him, and now I _can_. He tugs his shirt over his head, and I can run my hand up his side, down his chest, tracing the ripply contours of abs, and god dammit, I _want him_. 

He rolls me onto my back, hips slotting in against me. I can feel the drag and catch of denim, I can feel where he’s hard against the crease of my thigh, and I can feel his weight on me, holding me, pressing into me, trapping me, and I can feel myself start to shut down. 

This is so stupid. 

I remind myself that I’m _safe_. He’s being gentle, I tell myself. He’s not holding my wrists, he’s not pinning me, he’s not doing anything that should make me feel _un_ safe. 

I’m still shutting down. I stare at a point somewhere over his shoulder as he kisses my neck, and I remind myself that I’m being stupid, and I _can’t fucking breathe._

“Hey,” he whispers, and then he’s looking down at me, rolling onto his side again, and I try to focus on him but part of me is seeing someone else. 

“Sorry,” I whisper, voice small and tight around the lump in my throat. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, so fucking sweet with his sunflower eyes wide and concerned. I shake my head. 

“No, it’s stupid,” I squeak. “I’m being stupid. I’m sorry, it’s not your fault, you didn’t — we can — I’m _fine_.” 

“Do you need space, or — how can I help?” 

“Don’t go,” I breathe. “Please don’t, I’m okay, just come… come here?” 

“Okay, sweetheart,” he whispers, putting an arm around me, kissing my forehead. “Hey, I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I’m right here. Take your time.” 

I burrow into his chest, tears stinging my eyes as I start to break the grip of whatever cold thing has been clutching at my ribcage. 

This is so fucking _stupid_. 

I remember to breathe, and Sam waits. He strokes my hair, whispers soothing nonsense, cradles me close. 

“I’m sorry,” I choke out eventually. I can’t look him in the eye; I look at his neck instead, the steady flutter of his pulse under the skin. 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” he says, soft but fierce. “Nothing. You hear me?” 

“‘Kay.” I swallow hard and try to shake it off. “We can — it’s not that I don’t want to. Do you want—” 

“Stop,” he interrupts. “There’s no rush, okay? If you’re doing this because you think you _should_ … for my sake? That’s not how it works.” 

He curls a gentle finger under my chin, tilting my head back until I meet his eyes, and I feel hot all over at the tenderness in his expression. I blink away tears and give him a tiny nod. 

“This is about the guy you told me about?” he asks, tentative. “Was it… it was more than you made it out to be, wasn’t it?” 

I nod again. I don’t trust myself to make words. My heart is racing, and I can feel the panicked beat of it in my throat, choking me. 

“We need to talk about this, at some point. Okay? You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me, but I need to know what not to do. I don’t ever want to scare you.” 

“Okay,” I whisper, feeling raw and exposed and so goddamn crazy about him. 

“We don’t have to do that now, though. Just rest. You’re safe with me.” 

**2.**

“Good morning, gorgeous,” Sam whispers when I stir. He’s spooned up behind me, one big solid arm around my waist, and I settle myself more comfortably in the cocoon of his embrace. Then I remember. 

“About last night—” I start hesitantly. 

“If you’re going to try to apologize again, stop right there,” he says, and I can hear the wry smile in his voice. “But if you want to talk about it…” 

We didn’t close the curtains, and the morning sun is filtering through the blinds of the motel room, making everything feel clean and bright and fresh. It’s easier like this, too, with my back to Sam. I don’t have to feel his eyes on me. 

“There hasn’t been anyone else, since,” I admit. My voice sounds very small in the quiet of the room. “So… I don’t really know what causes it. Not for sure.” 

Sam exhales slowly, his breath tickling the curve of my neck. “What happened last night, to set it off?” 

“Having you on top of me, I think. It’s not — you didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Neither did you. That’s all on him,” Sam says. The faintest hint of a growl in his voice takes me by surprise. “No blame, okay? I’m not going to take it personally. Not ever.” 

“Okay. Um. Feeling… held down, or trapped. And you shouldn’t — don’t grab my wrists?” 

“I can do that. What else?” 

“I think… just, not too rough?” I ask, cheeks burning. “I don’t think I could handle… too much. The first time, at least.” 

“Okay,” he agrees calmly. “And what else? What does work for you?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“This isn’t about, like, just making it _manageable_ for you,” he says, low and earnest, kissing the curve of my neck. “I want to make you feel _good_.” 

“Oh,” I say breathlessly. “Oh. Um.” 

I’m suddenly very conscious of his hand splayed over my lower abdomen, his palm warm through the thin cotton of my tank top. He must feel the way my belly tightens, because he slides his hand a little lower, thumb tucking under the hem and stroking back and forth, tickling deliciously. 

It’s such a light touch, a barely-there brush, but it’s sending sparks down my spine. I wriggle back against Sam, wondering if the sudden crackle of tension in the air is just my imagination. 

“I want to know what gets you off.” Sam’s voice is husky and heated, and my breath hitches. It’s not just my imagination, then. “I want to make you come. It’s not just about… penetration, or whatever.” He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, and I wonder if that’s the first time someone has made the word _penetration_ sound sexy. “Do you want me to touch you? Do you want my mouth?” 

I shift, and I can feel him getting hard through his pajama pants. 

“Yeah,” I whisper. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I want that. Sam… want _you_.” 

His hand slides lower, until the tips of his pinky and ring finger are dipping under the elastic of my shorts. 

“When you touch yourself,” he says quietly. “What do you do? Can you show me?” 

“I don’t—”

His hand finds mine where it’s curled loosely on the mattress, slides under it so that my palm rests on the back of his, and he laces our fingers together, bringing our joined hands back to my stomach. 

“Can you show me?” he repeats, and the warmth of his hand is burning through my shirt, pooling in my core, making me _want_ like I haven’t wanted another person in a long time. 

“ _Oh_.” I take a deep breath. 

I guide his hand lower, flush against my skin, under my waistband and down until his fingers cup my cunt. When I press my middle finger down against his, he moves with me, one long finger parting my lips and stroking through silky wet heat. He follows my lead, waiting for me, his knuckle bending when mine does, nudging against my entrance. His finger is so much longer than mine. When I curl it, pressing in, it’s him sliding into me, his fingertip, shallow and easy. 

I exhale slowly, not pushing, and he stays, chest rising against my back as he sucks in a deep breath, waiting for my direction. 

“Can you feel how much I want you?” I ask. 

“Yeah,” he says, low and gravelly. 

“Good.” 

I’m shaky and wet and _aching_ with how much I want him, and I’m not sure where this is going, not sure I’m ready for more than his fingers, but I need him to understand: none of this, none of my hesitation, is because I don’t want him. 

I draw his hand up, showing him where to stroke with one slick fingertip, circling my clit, and I can feel him trembling too, all down my back, his cock hard where it presses against my ass. This torturous drawn-out intensity, the way he’s _waiting_ for me… it’s almost unbearable, but at the same time, I can’t bring myself to move any faster. 

We breathe in sync, both our chests heaving at the same time as the zing of it ripples out through me, and —

Someone bangs on the door. 

“Up and at ‘em!” Dean shouts. “C’mon, let’s hit the road.”

“Fuck,” I hiss, as Sam lets out a low groan. It takes every bit of my willpower to pull away. When I roll to face him, he’s just as wild-eyed as I feel, flushed and panting and gorgeous. 

We’re both paralyzed for a second, staring at each other, until he lets out a long sigh. 

“Later,” he husks, and it sounds like a promise. 

“Later.” 

**3.**

Later, when we fall into bed, I’m shaking for a completely different reason. 

It wasn’t a bad hunt, in the end. It’s just one moment that keeps replaying in my memories on a sickening loop. There was so much blood, all down the side of his face and neck, and he went still in a way that made my heart stop for a second. 

Apparently ears bleed a lot. 

I felt a little embarrassed when I saw the injury, a barely-there slice through the cartilage, but I couldn’t shake the sight of all that blood. There’s still traces of it on his skin, dried in his hair. My stomach churns whenever I catch a glimpse of rusty red. 

He pulls the comforter up over us, lying on his uninjured side, and I kiss him, deep and starved, my entire body vibrating with the tension of lingering adrenaline, like my skin is sparking up with the reminder that we’re still alive and we should enjoy it while we can. 

I can feel it in his muscles, too, the way he’s holding back, holding himself stiff like he has to restrain himself. He rolls onto his back and takes me with him, arms strong around me, body warm and ready under me. 

I choke on a quiet sob, trying to hold it in.

Sam freezes, big hands cupping my cheeks as he breaks the kiss. He looks at me, eyes deep green-gold in the lamplight. 

“It’s not — it’s not that. You scared me.” 

“I know,” he says. “I know. It’s okay. I’m here.” 

“Want you,” I say fiercely, watching the way his swollen-red lips twitch into a bittersweet smile. 

“Not like this,” he says. “Not when you’re already on edge. If your fight or flight system is still all revved up…” 

He’s right, but I hate it. He brushes hair back from my forehead and kisses me again, chaste and quick. 

“Okay,” I whisper, against his mouth. “Just… _god_ , you _scared_ me, Sam.” 

He’s quiet for a moment, and I kiss one corner of his mouth, then the other. 

“I need a shower,” he says. 

I frown, feeling childish as I confess, “I don’t want to be alone.” 

“I didn’t mean — come with me,” he suggests. “Shower with me. Not — no sex.” 

I raise an eyebrow at him skeptically. “Really?”

“You don’t have to,” he backtracks gently. “If you’re not ready to—” 

“Sam, I’ve wanted to see you naked since I met you,” I say flatly. “Believe me, that is not the problem.” 

He laughs, dimples flashing as he grins up at me. “Then… yeah. Come shower with me. I don’t want to let you out of my sight either.” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

He only turns on half the bathroom lights, keeping it dim. The harsh fluorescents would be too much. It’s easier to pull my shirt off when I feel like I can still hide in the shadows. 

I try not to stare as he strips down matter-of-factly and steps in, but it’s not easy. It’s not easy to look at myself, either, when I compare my body to Sam’s. I get my clothes off before I can talk myself out of it, tripping clumsily out of my jeans. 

He must see something different than I do when I look at myself, because the way he stares at me when I step into the shower… he looks at me like he never wants to stop looking. 

I’ve never felt like this before, shaky and vulnerable and open but in a _good_ way, because somehow I’m sure I’m not the only one feeling like this. I’ve never trusted _anyone_ like I trust Sam. That trust is what stops me from covering myself with my hands, stops me from doubting myself as I step under the spray with him and stand up on my tiptoes for a kiss. 

One kiss turns into more, syrupy-slow, water streaming down our skin as we melt into each other. Sam licks and sucks and nibbles at my mouth until my lips feel puffy and bruised. I adjust, slowly, to the feel of his body against mine, the way my soft curves mold to the muscled planes of his chest, the way his cock twitches against my stomach as he gets hard, and even though I can feel the length of him hot and heavy between us, he doesn’t press for more; he kisses me like this is all he’s ever wanted to do. 

By the time he pulls away, I’m light-headed. He looks down at me with water beading in his spiky eyelashes, and he smiles. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says simply, and somehow, I believe him. 

I don’t know what to say, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He grabs his shampoo from the edge of the tub and turns me around, my back to his chest. 

He massages little sudsy circles into my scalp and combs his fingers gently through the tangles. He shields my eyes when it’s time to rinse, tilting my chin back gently into the spray. Nobody’s done this for me since I was a child. It makes me feel innocent and serene and fucking _treasured_ , the way he takes care of me. 

Sex has always felt like the height of intimacy to me. I always feel vulnerable, like that’s the closest I can get to another person, the most exposed. 

Sam’s fingers in my hair feel like a better expression of trust than anything I’ve _ever_ done in bed. Sex has never felt this intimate. I’m not sure _anything_ has ever felt this intimate. 

Everything starts to fade, the leftover adrenaline draining out of me, the outside world ceasing to matter. It’s just Sam and me, completely bare, wrapped in our little steamy cocoon. I feel safe. I feel exhausted, heavy-eyed and heavy-limbed, muscles aching, but I don’t feel pressured and I don’t feel nervous. I just feel safe. 

**4.**

Maybe it’s the booze talking, but I want to lick Sam’s arms. 

He’s stretched out over the pool table as he lines up his shot, eyes laser-focused, hands curled around the cue. He has his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and I can see veins standing out under the skin, corded muscles rippling, bunching and shifting with every twist of his wrist. 

Yeah. I want to lick Sam’s arms. 

Dean spits out a sip of his beer, spluttering out a vehement, “Ew, I don’t want to hear that shit!” 

So apparently I said that out loud. 

Dean stalks away, muttering to himself, and I chirp a quick “Sorry!” to his retreating back. 

He’ll get over it. 

Sam’s done with his game, and he’s walking toward me, grinning in that slow easy way of his as he tucks his hair behind his ears. He’s so fucking _gorgeous_. I can’t handle not touching him any more. 

“Can we get some air?” I ask breathlessly, and his eyes sparkle with amusement as he lets me tug him outside. 

There are a couple people smoking by the door, so I pull him farther away, down to the end of the building, where a tacky wooden statue of a bear stands between us and the door. It’s close enough to privacy. 

Sam slouches back against the brick, and I stand up on my tiptoes to kiss him, leaning against him and trusting him to keep me upright. He goes with it, opening up for me as I take control of the kiss, his lips pillowy, and I can feel him smile. 

“What was that for?” he asks, when I give him a second to breathe. I nuzzle into the side of his neck and nip at his pulse, and his fingers tighten on my hips. 

“Just want you,” I say bluntly. I kiss him again, a deep filthy kiss that I can feel down to my toes. “I was watching you, and… yeah. Want you. Can we go back to the motel?” 

“You’re drunk,” he says, mock-admonishing, but he’s still smiling. 

“‘M not drunk, _you’re_ drunk,” I mumble sulkily. 

“Yep,” he says, popping the P, and raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, okay,” I concede. “Tipsy, maybe.” 

“Which is still too drunk,” Sam says gently. 

I let out a tiny frustrated sound as he kisses me again. “Fine.” 

He laughs, shifting his weight, getting one knee between mine, and when I settle closer, I can feel the blunt pressure of his thigh right between my legs. 

“Believe me,” he whispers, between kisses, “I would really, really love to take you back to the motel right now but… it’s not a good idea.” He shifts, and I whine at the friction. “I’m not going to have sex with you tonight. I want us both to be sober for that. When we get there… I want to remember every second of it.” 

“Kinda worried I’m gonna combust before then.” The drag of denim on denim pulls at the seam of my jeans, almost painfully good, and I shiver. 

“Oh,” he says quietly, like he didn’t realize that he was torturing me. He rocks forward experimentally. It feels like fireworks. 

“Don’t _oh_ me,” I grump, except it comes out more breathless than grumpy. 

“It’ll be worth the wait,” he whispers. “Don’t want to rush it. Want to take my time with you. I want to watch you come for me, want to taste it —” 

I whimper, rolling my hips helplessly, clinging to Sam so tight that my fingers must be bruising his biceps. 

“Do you like thinking about that?” he asks, growling low against my ear. “My mouth?” 

“Please,” I bite out. “ _Fuck_ , Sam, I need — something. _Anything_.” I tilt my hips down again, trying to make my point. 

He hesitates for a split second before rocking up to meet me, and I let out a ragged sigh. 

“I won’t — not tonight, not more than this,” he says hoarsely, stumbling over the words. His hands grip my hips, holding me still as he asks intently, “Are you sure this is okay right now? If you really want —”

“Please,” I say again. I meet his eyes, embarrassed by how much I want him but steady in spite of it. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol making me feel like this, loose and relaxed and reckless, or maybe it’s just Sam, the way he’s letting me take the lead, the way he groans when I shudder against him, the way I trust him with my life and trust him enough to let him see me fall apart like this. 

And I _am_ falling apart. I work my hips in little circles, feeling the dull burn of it clench in my gut with every tiny movement, pushing myself closer to the edge. 

Sam just _lets_ me, chest heaving, murmuring filthy-sweet things in my ear: “I’m all yours. Anything. Don’t care how long I have to wait, just — want to make you feel good. Want you on top of me, want you to just — ride my mouth, rub yourself all over my tongue, want —” 

I let out a tiny, bitten-off whimper, hiding my face against his shoulder. My muscles spasm as I come, jerking against him, feeling it thud through me all at once like a punch to the gut. 

I’m almost surprised by it, and by the wave of relief that washes through me. It’s not the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had, but it’s the _easiest_ by far. I never realized I _could_ get off like that. 

Then again, any experience I’ve ever had with dry-humping was with the guy on top of me, hipbones bruising my thighs, and… yeah. No thank you. 

“Jesus,” Sam breathes, arms around me, supporting my weight as I collect myself.

“That was… unexpected,” I blurt out, and I giggle helplessly as I pull back to look at him. He grins back, and there’s something so dazed and beautiful in his expression that I lose my breath all over again. 

“I —” Sam starts, but he catches himself, shutting his mouth abruptly.

_I’m falling in love with you,_ I think, heart pounding, but I know I can’t say it now, can’t say it like this. 

Sam and I look at each other in silence for a second, and then the moment passes. I flush, self-conscious, an apology on the tip of my tongue. 

“Don’t apologize, that was one of the hottest things that’s ever happened to me,” Sam says preemptively, before I can form the words. “You should go inside, before Dean comes looking for us. Just… give me a second?” He adjusts himself in his jeans, making a face, and I giggle. 

“See you in there.” 

**5.**

“That was easy,” Dean comments, as we buckle our seatbelts. “Where to next? Sammy, did you find anything in the paper this morning?” 

“Actually,” Sam says. “I could really use an evening off. Can we grab some food and go back to the motel and just… chill for the night?” 

He and Dean exchange one of those Winchester looks that don’t mean anything to anyone else but the two of them. 

“Sure,” Dean says easily. Sam smiles at me in the rearview, and I think, _oh_. 

My brain is my worst enemy. By the time we pull into the motel lot, I’m panicking, and I’m not even sure why. 

Sam’s laughing at something Dean just said, bathed in gold late-afternoon light, and he’s _incredible_ , and I should want nothing more than to get him in our room and jump him, but my chest feels tight and I’m convinced that I’ll freeze up, freak out, mess it all up, and he’ll give up, he’s already been so _patient_ — 

“Hey, you okay?” Sam asks. The driver’s side door slams behind Dean, breaking me out of my trance. 

“Fine,” I say, too brightly. “I’m fine.” 

He studies me for a second, head tilted, and I try to smile at him. It doesn’t work. 

“I’m not fine,” I amend, and feel my face crumple. 

“Hang on one sec?” Sam asks, and I take a second to compose myself as he jumps out of the car. He and Dean have a whispered powwow and then Sam returns, key in hand, sliding into the driver’s seat. 

“Come sit up front,” he says easily, without explanation. “Let’s go for a drive.” 

“We can —” I try, but he cuts me off. 

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like there’s pressure,” he says firmly. “I just want to spend time with you. Let’s just… go for a drive.” 

So that’s what we do. When we leave the strip mall hell that surrounds the motel, Sam gets off the highway and we’re in the woods, driving up a winding mountain road. Sam seems to know where he’s headed; he mutters “Think it’s around here somewhere,” at one point, and then eventually he turns onto the Blue Ridge Parkway. 

He drives slow, easing into the sharp curves. I can breathe again. It’s hard to feel panicky out here, up in the open air, close to the pink-tinted sky. When the trees open up there are views of sprawling valleys, just starting to turn orange and yellow in the first hints of fall. 

There’s a wide pull-off for a scenic overlook, “Rocky Knob,” and Sam parks. The sun is setting behind us and the clouds are lined in deep pink now. 

Sam spreads his coat out on the scratchy grass, right in front of Baby, and we sit next to each other, watching in easy silence as the light fades and dusk falls. 

“Thank you,” I say quietly, tilting my head onto his shoulder. He slips an arm around me and I shift, turning to settle more comfortably against his side. A sliver of moon is just visible on the horizon. 

“You know you don’t —” he starts. His voice sounds choked and strange. “There’s nothing to thank me for. I just like seeing you _happy_. That’s more important to me than… any of the rest of it.” 

“Thank you,” I repeat, firmly, and he lets out a laugh that’s more of a sigh. 

I twist to kiss him, intending to make it a quick peck on the corner of his mouth, but he turns to meet me, tongue flickering over my lower lip, teeth scraping ever so carefully. One hand finds my cheek, and his fingers are so long that I feel dwarfed by the way they cradle and caress and pull me closer. 

I crawl into his lap, straddling him. He has one hand on the small of my back and the other between my shoulderblades, steadying me. I trace the hard lines of bones under skin, running my fingers along the jut of his jaw and stroking the hinge of it with my thumb, sliding the other hand back to cup the shape of his skull, and for all his size and strength he feels fragile under my fingers. I brush over his pulse and rub the soft hollow behind his ear, and I can feel how fragile _this_ is, this thing between us and the way it makes him shake when he breathes. 

We’re both shaking, I realize, as I rest my forehead against his. The tip of my nose nudges against his. The curve of his lower lip brushes mine, barely, not intentional enough to be a kiss, just… close. 

Not close enough. Never close enough. 

“Sam,” I start, voice wobbling dangerously, but I don’t even know where to begin. His fingers twist in the back of my shirt, fisted in the fabric like he’s afraid to let go. He exhales — inhales — trembles. 

Somehow I never considered that I might not be the only one here who’s scared. 

I kiss him one more time, trying to tell him how I feel even if I can’t say the words yet, and then I pull away to look at him. His eyes catch and reflect the moonlight, glittering in the dark. 

“Let’s go,” I say, and my voice isn’t shaking any more. 

**6.**

Sam’s nervous. He doesn’t know what to do with himself once the motel room door clicks shut behind us; he turns the desk lamp on and just stands there, rubbing the back of his neck and shifting his weight uncomfortably. 

“We could watch a movie?” he offers. His hesitation makes it easier, somehow, to take the lead; I go up to him and tug at the hem of his shirt as I kiss his jaw. 

“I don’t want to watch a movie,” I say firmly. I slide my hands under his shirt and run my thumbs over the ridges of his hipbones. “Take this off?” 

He strips his shirt off and tosses it to the side, smiling, shy and happy. 

We kiss and shed layers and kiss again, stumbling back toward the bed. When the backs of my legs hit the mattress, we’re down to our underwear, and even though I’ve seen Sam naked, now, the sight of him takes me by surprise. It doesn’t seem fair, how beautiful he is. All the bare golden skin throws me off-balance. 

He moves slowly into my space, running his hands up my arms to cup my shoulders, and when he kisses me, my head spins. I sit down heavily on the edge of the bed, feeling clumsy and stupid. Sam just folds to his knees in front of me, smiling up at me patiently. 

“Can I?” he asks softly. He runs his hands up my legs and hooks his fingers in the elastic of my panties. When I nod, he tugs, and I lift my hips to let him slide the fabric down until it’s out of the way. 

He moves closer, kneeling between my spread legs. He doesn’t look shy any more. He looks _hungry_ , pupils huge in kaleidoscope blue-gold irises as he watches me through his lashes. 

I nod again, silently giving him permission, and his lips curl into a smile. Sam hooks his hands under my thighs and pulls me forward, until I’m right on the edge of the bed. 

“Give me your hand?” he asks, and when I do, he brings it to his head, tangling my fingers through his silky hair. I lean on my other hand to brace myself and the position opens me up for him even more. “You’re in charge,” he reminds me. 

The first lick is slow, just a smooth wet curl of heat tracing up my center, good in a way that’s easy and sweet even if it’s not the ‘ _god more now_ ’ kind of pleasure. I run my fingers through Sam’s hair idly, trying to relax. He does it again, dipping down and dragging up, before swirling his tongue over my clit, and the friction coils up and rolls out through my core. The next lush swipe of his tongue has more pressure behind it, and he lingers on my clit, flattening his tongue, massaging. I let out a little sigh, and he hums approvingly. 

“Want you to tell me what feels good, okay?” he asks, mouthing at the crease of my hip. “Or show me. Hold me where you want me.” 

How does he just _say those things?_

Sam buries his face between my legs again, not just licking but working me over with his open mouth pressed to my cunt like he’s kissing me. He gets my clit between his lips and sucks gently, and it’s so good that I tug him closer helplessly, giving in to the pleasure before I even have a chance to hold back. 

“Sorry,” I gasp, relaxing my grip when I realize how hard I’m pulling. “Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to —” 

“I _like_ it,” Sam growls, the words vibrating right up against me. Then he’s doing that _thing_ again, slick pulsing pressure, and I give in, twisting my fingers in his hair and tilting my hips up to meet his mouth as my eyes roll back in my head. He moans low in his throat.

Every wave of suction feels more intense. It’s sharp and bright and _perfect_ , building so fast I’m not sure what to do with myself; all I _can_ do is hold on and arch up and shudder. I can feel it pulling up from my fingers, my toes, an inevitable swell of pressure under my skin until the wave of it finally crests and I come with a shout, long and drawn-out, one shock of pleasure after another. 

“Fucking — _fuck_ , Sam,” I whine, my voice coming out embarrassingly high-pitched and cracked. He flicks his tongue over me again and I twitch, jerking away from the raw-nerve feel of it. 

When I drag my eyes open he’s looking up at me, smiling, a dimple just visible as he turns his head to kiss my inner thigh. 

The fuck am I supposed to say to that? 

Apparently I _can’t_ say anything to that. I think my brain has gone permanently offline. 

Sam sort of scoops me up and deposits me farther back on the bed, where I’m not at risk of falling down on my ass, and I grin dazedly as he stands up. His mouth is red and swollen and it looks like _sin_. 

“Still with me?” he asks, and I nod. “Be right back.” 

I scoot back until I can get under the blanket and sink into the pillows. I hear Sam rummaging in his shower kit, then the water running, but I don’t have the mental capacity to pay attention. My eyes are half-closed by the time he comes back. 

He sets a bottle of lube down on the nightstand and I avert my eyes uncomfortably, taking the glass of water he offers before he slides into bed next to me. 

“Why did that just make you get all shy?” he asks softly, correctly interpreting my expression. I shrug and twist away to set the glass down, but when I turn back to him, he’s still waiting for an answer. 

I cuddle close, tucking my head under his chin, listening to him breathe for a moment. He’s naked, hard against my hip, and I’m almost surprised by the way my body responds to that; my stomach flips, hot and eager, in spite of my racing thoughts. 

“It’s like… _all_ of this,” I say hoarsely. “It just makes me feel like I’m being a pain in the ass. Because it’s supposed to be _simpler_ than this. It means I’m not wet enough, and… I _want_ you, and that should be the only thing that matters, and instead we have to go through this whole process of talking about my issues and… it’s supposed to be _easier_ than this, and it’s my fault.” 

Sam is very still, muscles stiff, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s angry. 

“It’s not ‘supposed to’ be anything other than _good_ for you,” he says sharply. “Look at me for a second.” 

I pull back, taking in the fierce, raw expression on his face. My chest feels tight. 

“Everybody’s different,” Sam says, quiet and intense. “Everybody has shit they like and don’t like, places they like being touched… it’s not an _issue_ , and it’s especially not _your_ issue. You’re not being _difficult_ by telling me how to help you enjoy yourself. I _want_ that. I want to know how to make you feel good. Okay?” 

“Okay,” I whisper. 

“And if I ever meet any of your exes —” he says, jaw clenching, eyes stormy. I let out a nervous little giggle, and his expression melts from thunderous to soft before he continues, “It makes me happy knowing that you feel safe. It’s _hot_ , watching you get off on it… your reaction is what turns me on more than anything.” 

My stomach swoops. I slide closer, running a thumb over the soft swollen curve of his lower lip. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice dropping down low. “You have no _idea_ what you do to me.” He rubs his palm over the curve of my hip like he can’t get enough of my bare skin. “When you were pulling my hair and just — the way you were shaking —” 

I cut him off with a kiss, melding my body to his, and he smiles against my mouth before opening up easily, kissing me back with these slow, sultry swipes of his tongue. I can feel him everywhere: bare all down my front, hands roaming like he can’t help himself, close and feverish under the blanket. I push it down, shivering at the cool air on my sweaty skin. 

When I tangle a hand in his hair and tug slightly, Sam makes a gorgeous needy sound, and his cock twitches, hard and thick against my stomach. I push him onto his back and he goes easily, pliant under me, looking up with a flush on his cheeks and a smile on his lips as I straddle him. For a moment I feel paralyzed by the sight of him. The moment stretches and I just _stare_. 

Sam runs his hands up my hips, sliding one hand up between my breasts before tracing the curve of one with his knuckles, dragging his thumb over my nipple and circling as the skin pebbles under his touch. My shivery sigh of pleasure breaks whatever spell we were under. 

I duck down to kiss him again, and the movement presses the ridge of his cock right between my legs, silky skin hot where it slots up against me. When I roll my hips, we both groan. 

I reach for the lube. His smile goes smirky at the edges. 

“If you say ‘I told you so’ right now, I swear to god —” I blurt out, and we’re both laughing as I touch him, slicking him up messily. 

It’s the laughter that erases the last of my doubts. My nervous giggle bursts like a bubble in my chest, releasing whatever tension I was holding there. I just feel light and giddy and _happy_ as I wipe my hand on the blankets and position myself. 

Then I’m sinking down, opening up around him, and the sudden aching stretch turns my laugh into a breathy moan. Sam is watching me as I work my hips down, taking him in. His eyelashes flutter against his cheek.

I understand, now, what Sam meant: _your reaction is what turns me on._ Because if I’d wanted him before, it was _nothing_ compared to how I feel now. He tilts his head back, arching up and exposing his throat, tendons shifting under the skin as he strains under me and gasps out my name, and the clenching wave of need in my belly is _blinding_. 

_Fuck_. 

I shift, lean forward, sparking up some new kind of friction deep inside where I’m so full of him, and I’m whimpering as I kiss him gently. 

“Okay?” he asks. I cup a hand to his jaw and he brings his own up to cover it, an oddly tender gesture. 

“So much better than okay,” I tell him. It’s the truth. 

I take it slow. We kiss, mouths clumsy with need, and I take it _slow_. 

It takes a few minutes to adjust to his size. I rock my hips in tiny little movements, circling, twisting, feeling all the different ways there are to just _feel_ _him_. Every movement brings some new sort of sensation as he drags against every sweet spot deep inside me. 

I’m barely moving. I know he must want to fuck up into me, _thrust_ , but he holds back, holds himself steady, lets me take what I need while he whispers sweet bits of nonsense against my lips. He tells me I’m beautiful, tells me I feel incredible, tells me I’m safe, and I trust him. 

Then I grind down harder, and something flares up inside me, quivering out from where his cock is pressing deep in my belly. I do it again. The low dull throb of it has me trembling, panting against his mouth as I brace myself to get more, _harder_ , clenching around him desperately. 

Sam slides a hand down between us, flattening his palm over that spot, and I can feel the pressure building _right there_ , but I need _more_. 

“Sit up for me?” he asks raggedly. “Lean back, it’ll —” 

He grits his teeth and cuts himself off, but I do it without questioning, sitting back on my heels and bracing my hands behind me. I would feel exposed if I wasn’t distracted by how good this feels. I’m barely moving, still, but Sam presses his palm down and tilts his hips up, and it’s like I can feel the molten force of it _everywhere_ , like it’s going to split my skin. 

Sam looks as close to the edge as I feel, eyes glazed, and I can feel him jerking up to meet me. 

“Do it,” I hiss, and when he thrusts up for real, the surge of pressure makes me cry out, loud and shameless like I _never_ am. 

One last urgent grinding roll, one last surge of pressure, and I’m _gone_. I let my head fall back and let go, trusting Sam to keep me tethered to the earth as everything else goes brilliant white and sends me flying. 

I’m distantly aware of the way he curses and twists up, the way he swells and twitches inside me, but there’s so much sensation that I can’t separate what’s him and what’s me; it’s all just one hot slick rhythmic pulsing rush as we ride it out, _together_. 

When I start to go shaky and useless, Sam tugs me so that I flop forward onto his chest. I melt against him, face buried in the sweaty crook of his neck, skin thrumming with satisfaction. I kiss whatever bit of him is close to my mouth, and he tastes like salt. 

“So _that’s_ what that’s supposed to feel like,” I mumble. 

“I don’t think it’s ever felt like that, with anyone,” Sam says quietly, like he’s telling me a secret. “But… I’ve never _felt_ this way about anyone, so.” 

I can tell he’s holding his breath. I put my palm on his chest. His heart is pounding, racing in counterpoint to mine, and I want to tell him that he’s safe; he can trust me with this. 

“Me too,” I whisper, and he exhales. 

**Author's Note:**

> Whether it was rape or coercion or just a partner who didn't care enough to make them feel comfortable, I think way too many people know what it's like to feel powerless or unsafe during sex. Cheers to honest conversations and unlearning the instinct to apologize. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please leave a comment! You can also fine me on tumblr: there-must-be-a-lock.


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